


We Made Enemies (Of Each Other)

by ikebukuro



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikebukuro/pseuds/ikebukuro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't like me very much, do you, Charlotte."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Made Enemies (Of Each Other)

 

* * *

 

"You don't like me very much, do you, Charlotte."

It's not a question, Charlie realizes and she's glad it's not because questions sort of required answers and she's still too angry— _that he's alive, that's he's here, that Miles has the nerve to bring him here_ —to trust herself to speak. But she doesn't take her eyes of him, because you don't take your eyes off a snake in the grass, regardless of who tells you it won't bite.

"It's okay, you know," he says, still with that vaguely pleasant expression that makes her hands ache to ball into fists. She feels like her whole face is pinched in, set in stone; she grinds her back teeth and her jaw _creaks_. Her eyes burn and something bitter crawls up the back of her throat in disgust. And he still manages to look so _casual_ it makes her sick.

"What's _okay_ —?" It comes grating out between her teeth, venomous. "What's supposed to be  _okay_ now, Monroe? Go ahead, tell me—because if there's anything that's _okay_ these days I sure as hell don't see it." She smells the phantom remnants of smoke, tastes ash on her tongue for a heartbeat and she fights not to spit her words at him. "You _ruined_ lives. You _killed_ hundreds of people, plenty who weren't even soldiers, who didn't do anything wrong." She searched for a word,  _any word_ , that could make it hurt, that could bear the weight of her heart, of her hatred.

She settled for,  _"Monster."_

His brows twitch up like he's surprised, but to her it looks like  _amusement,_ like he's laughing without sound at some joke she's missed. 

She's not surprised to realize that her ragged nails are pressing painful crescents into her palms.

"I guess Uncle Bass doesn't get the same consideration as Uncle Miles, huh?" He murmurs it while he leans back against the edge of the field desk, his legs crossed at the ankles and when he says it he tips his head just a notch—but Miles does that too sometimes and it jars her, makes something uneasy roll in her stomach. 

He sees it, she realizes. Because he smiles and it's the smile she remembers from the powerplant—infuriatingly cordial, cool and polite and  _detached_. It's a knowing smile, one that says, _I see right through you_.

His gaze rests on her, targeted, and he rubs his thumb over the edge of the desk like he's testing the edge of a knife. "We're all monsters, Charlotte. Miles, me. Your mother, your father. And now  _you_." His lips curl upward, sharp at the corners, and the smile flickers for a moment, becomes something almost like a sneer. "It's in your  _blood_."

She jerks like she's been hit. "I'm  _nothing_ like you," she hisses out, breathless with sudden fury. " _Nothing."_

"Yes, you are," he says, and the easy smile is back now, the unkind twist to his lips of a moment ago gone like it was never there. "You're a monster just like the rest of us. You'll get that, eventually." He pushes off the field desk, straightens up, and smoothes a hand down the front of his jacket; he gives her a once over and his mouth quirks. Again.

"It's okay," he repeats, picking up where they started while she seethes. "To hate me, I mean. Plenty of people do and you've got more reasons to than most. Hate me if you have to, Charlotte."

She tips her head up to look him in the eye. "I don't need your _permission_ , Monroe."

"No," he acknowledges, "no you don't. But you have it anyway. After all," he drawls, "we're practically _family_." And the way he says it,  _family_ , it's like he expects the word to mean something to her—but it doesn't. She has Miles, but she doesn't have a family.

And that's  _his_ fault.

"Go to hell," she shoots back, more because she needs something,  _anything_ , to say than because she thinks that's a good enough punishment; she settles for it, though, because despite all her rage, her hurts, her heartbreaks, she doesn't know what to say to him—how to make  _him_ hurt like he hurt  _her._

Or maybe she does. He makes a sound under his breath, pained or thoughtful, she doesn't know and doesn't care; all she sees is that his smile withers into something less casual, less put-together, and she's so, _so_ glad when he moves past her, even if his arm does brush her shoulder as he goes, rocking her back a fraction.

"Maybe, I'll see you there," he says, voice low as he moves away from her, behind her to the door.

She doesn't look back at him when she whispers, just as lowly, "Never."

There's no answer.

He's already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of what may or may not be a really ridiculously disjointed series of minifics all connected into a larger story. Focus on Charlie & Bass, mostly. May involve a fair share of Miles/Bass or Miles & Charlie. Ye' be warned.


End file.
